


Come As You Are

by onethingconstant



Series: The Hell's Kitchen Survivors' Group and Drinking Club [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: BAMF Jessica Jones, F/M, Families of Choice, Slow Burn, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Wakanda, human disasters, save Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 18:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11973240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onethingconstant/pseuds/onethingconstant
Summary: "Put some pants on, loser. We're going Defending.""Holy crap, Jess. What're youdoing?""Kidnapping me, I think.""Don't be such a baby. I didn't even duct-tape you."In the aftermath ofThe Defenders, Jessica Jones tracks down Matt Murdock and drags him out of comfortable anonymity. Why? Because if you want to rescue your drinking buddies from being international fugitives, there's no better partner than a dead Devil.It does not go as planned.





	1. AKA Wake-Up Call

The man in the narrow bed dreamed. He dreamed in color.

He dreamed of the rich sheen of satin in scarlet and gold. He dreamed of Central Park in springtime, of new grass glowing green in the warm sunlight. He dreamed of a world on fire as sunset washed the city’s rooftops in saffron and crimson. He dreamed the electric blue of an August sky, the rich brown of leather bag gloves, the deep purple of bruises from a hard-won fight. He dreamed of his father’s hazel eyes, and of the stained-glass windows of the parish church, washing the world in brilliant light of every shade and hue. In his dreams, the colors had never left him. 

Then someone dumped a glass of water on his head.

Matt Murdock woke with a jerk and a splutter. He lashed out blindly—ha—with a scything kick, but failed to connect. He scrambled to a sitting position, shoving his back against the iron rail that doubled as his headboard. He shook the water out of his face and opened his eyes to darkness and a world on fire. 

He was still in the room he’d fallen asleep in, thank God. The echo of his breathing off the long, low walls, the smell of musty exposed beams from the slanting ceiling, the skitter of the rat colony under the warping floorboards—all blessedly familiar. Air temperature was about the same as he remembered, but he could feel the stir as the atmosphere shifted; it wasn’t long after sunset, but it was probably full dark. 

(He wondered what color the sky was. Dammit, the last of the dream still clung to him like cobwebs in his hair.) 

But all of that was nothing to the woman standing at his bedside, still holding the empty glass. Matt barely needed to breathe in to get the rundown on her: tall, rail-thin, creaking in a leather jacket and rustling under the curtain of silk-fine hair that hid her from the world. She stood hipshot, head cocked expectantly, and he was too far away to sense her face but she smelled of bad whiskey and his own scent lingered on her scarf and—

“Guh,” he said. ( _Way to dazzle the judge, Murdock._ ) Then he tried to make up for it with: “Jessica Jones?”

“Oh, good,” she said, dry as vermouth. “Now I only know _one_ person with amnesia.” 

“What—how’d—what’re you doing here?” Matt blurted. 

“Rise and shine, princess,” she ordered. “We got about five minutes before the nuns find out about the cookies.” The glass clicked down on the trunk that served him as a bedside table.

“The—who?” Matt shoved his fingers through his hair and expanded the sphere of his senses. Heartbeats on the floors below, scents and sounds and—

Jessica slapped him. “ _Focus_ ,” she snarled. “You good to move? Need to grab anything? Punch a mother superior on the way out?”

He blinked at her. “Why would I do that?”

She muttered something that definitely wasn’t _God damn fucking satanic altar boy_ and turned her head—her hair slithered over leather—to look over her shoulder. “Fine,” she snapped, almost to herself. “Put some pants on, loser. We’re going Defending.” 

Slowly, Matt got to his feet and reached for the rough pair of jeans he’d left hooked over the bed’s foot rail. They smelled comfortingly of dust and sweat and lemon floor cleaner. The fabric scraped his skin as he pulled the pants on over his boxers. 

“Are we under attack?” he asked as he zipped the fly. “How many? What’s their ETA?”

“What?” Jessica turned back to him, and he felt her staring. “What are you talking about?”

“You said we’re defending. Are you here for Daredevil, or a lawyer?”

This time, he heard her blink. Then she snorted. “Dumbass,” she said. “We’re the Defenders. That’s what your girlfriend called us in the _Bulletin_. Like the Avengers, but with more alcoholism.” Air currents swirled as she pointed. “ _You’re_ the bad boy, which personally I find insulting. Bu they, turns out no amount of property damage is cooler than devil horns and martyrdom.” 

Matt tilted his head so far to one side that his vertebrae creaked. “Please tell me that made sense in your head.” 

“Screw it. We gotta move. I _may_ have bribed some nuns with badly expired cookies.” She wrapped warm fingers around his wrist and pulled. 

“Why would you do that?” he hissed as she pulled him down the back stairs. 

“I don’t bake for you, Murdock.” 

“No, I mean—” He stumbled onto a landing, but allowed her to yank him onto the next flight. “Why are you here?” 

She stopped and spun around so fast her hair thumped against her back. “Seriously? You wanna have this conversation now?” 

That was a question with only one answer. “Yeah. I do.”

“Too bad. I don’t.” She plunged down the stairs again, pulling him inexorably after her.

The air outside stank of New York in late summer: sewage and sweat and baking concrete. Matt allowed himself to be bundled into the back seat of a car and the door slammed behind him. Jessica scrambled into the shotgun seat, slammed her own door, and rapped the dashboard. 

“Holy crap, Jess,” another woman (expensive conditioner, more expensive perfume) said as the engine started. “What’re you _doing?_ ”

“Kidnapping me, I think,” Matt said. The car accelerated out of a parking lot and into the street. 

“Don’t be such a baby,” Jessica ordered. “I didn’t even duct-tape you.” 

“Oh, my _God_ ,” the other woman said. 

“Evening, Ms. Walker,” Matt said, because _his_ dad had taught him manners. “I take it you didn’t sign up to be a getaway driver?”

“Jess said we were rescuing you!” Trish Walker complained. 

“We are,” Jessica retorted. “That place was full of nuns. He’d’ve died of guilt.” 

“Jesus,” said Trish.

Matt raised his eyebrows. 

“Sorry,” Trish said.

“See?” Jessica put in. “Nuns. Besides, I spent three weeks finding the right convent with a blind handyman. I wasn’t gonna let that go to waste for some bullshit self-flagellation.” 

“Why did you bother?” Matt asked. 

“Still not answering,” Jessica answered, singsong. 

Matt sighed and flopped down across the seat. “Fine. Do I get to know where we’re going, at least?”

“Drop point,” Jessica said. “Then Trish quits being an accessory, and we switch cars. How’s your driving?”

Matt made a face. “I’ve been blind since I was ten and I’ve never been out of New York. What kind of question is that?”

“Commie,” Jessica said. “Fine. I’ll drive, you ninja-kick people.”

“Who am I ninja-kicking?”

Jessica slouched back in her seat. “Whoever gets between us and Bucky.”


	2. AKA Driver Picks the Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drop point is reached. Matt gets groped. Jessica lives the dream. Whiskey is discussed. Feelings are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not Catholic. My experiences with Catholocism are limited to a brief stint in Catholic school, which ended shortly after someone tried to set me on fire for heresy. 
> 
> All misrepresentations of Catholicism (and all shitty Latin) in this chapter are the fault of Google. No disrespect is intended; if I'm disrespecting your religion, I do a much better job than this.

The drop point was in Red Hook. Matt could tell by the smell.

“Good luck, and don’t be an idiot,” was all Trish said before Matt and Jessica piled out of the car. 

“Was she talking to me, or you?” Matt asked.

Jessica scoffed. “Me. She’s seen your ninja jammies.” 

“At least I wore armor,” Matt said softly.

“And then you dropped a building on yourself.” Jessica clapped him on the shoulder. “C’mon. This way.” 

He picked up the heartbeats from halfway across the dockside parking lot. One deep and strong and steady, like a bass drum backing a marching band; the other swift and strident, like a hawk beating its wings against a snare. He sighed heavily as he heard both rhythms quicken.

“If they hug you, I’m not stopping them,” Jessica warned. 

Matt made a face, but kept walking. 

“Sweet Christmas,” Luke Cage said appreciatively.

“Oh, my God,” breathed Danny Rand.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jessica drawled.

Matt’s only warning was a whisper of cloth, and then something warm and firm slammed into his chest, smelling faintly of patchouli. He grunted as Danny threw arms around him.

“Mister Murdock!” Danny bubbled. “We thought you were dead!” He reared back suddenly and grabbed Matt’s wrist, thumbing for a pulse. “Wait, _are_ you dead? Did the Hand resurrect you to be their weapon like they did—”

“Stop talking,” Jessica cut him off. 

Matt winced. Even thinking Elektra’s name still stung. 

“Danny,” Luke said calmly, “let the man breathe. He can’t answer your questions if you squeeze him to death.” 

“I’m not a kid,” Danny said, but he let Matt go.

“Murdock,” Luke said, and the little pressure wave of him extending a hand to shake was better than Danny’s hug had been. 

“Mister Cage,” Matt acknowledged, and took the hand. 

Luke immediately pulled Matt into his chest and threw a thickly muscled arm around his back.

“God, I’m the only one who didn’t grope him,” Jessica complained. “Does that make me the adult here?”

“I don’t think you’re the adult anywhere,” Danny replied.

Luke’s heart thumped heavily in Matt’s ears. The smell of him filled Matt’s nose: leather, concrete dust, Café Bustelo. 

“You’re an idiot,” Luke murmured, too soft for anyone without enhanced hearing to catch. “Do _not_ do that again.” 

Matt didn’t know what to say to that, so he just leaned into the hug. It was strangely like his father’s embrace had been, only with a different aftershave. 

In a lot of ways, his powers were like touching and tasting everything as he wandered through the world. Walking down a Hell’s Kitchen street meant being gut-punched by the smell of garbage and shoulder-checked by cell-phone conversations. Just being awake was an unending parade of nonconsensual touch. The best word for him at the end of most days was _battered_. 

It was why he’d always picked up women. If everyone was going to touch him all the time, it helped to have someone do it out of love. Or, well, lust. 

This wasn’t like that. This was someone who didn’t need anything, holding him because he was himself. 

_Do not cry,_ Matt told himself. _No crying on anyone who can throw a bus._

The moment was shattered by the click and whirr of an electronic shutter. 

“Really, Jess?” Luke rumbled. 

“Occupational hazard,” Jessica replied, lowering a flat rectangle that had to be a phone. “Claire might hire me someday.” 

Matt felt Luke’s entire body tense, then relax as he chuckled. “You’re not as cute as you think you are,” he said.

“Fuck you, I’m adorable,” Jessica shot back. “We good to go here?” 

“Yeah.” Luke released Matt with obvious reluctance, and they stepped apart. The big man strolled over to a nearby car and gave the trunk a proprietary pat. “2009 Impala, bought with cash. Paperwork’s getting lost in the mail for now.” 

“Why did it have to be used?” Danny grumbled. “I’m a billionaire. I can buy ten new cars for what I pay for lunch sometimes.” 

“People notice new,” Jessica explained. “Old just sort of fades into the background. It’s about subtlety.” Her hair whispered as she cocked her head. “Maybe have Colleen explain that part.” 

Danny muttered something in what sounded like Mandarin.

Luke cleared his throat. 

“You don’t even know what I said,” Danny accused, but pulled a wallet smelling of new leather out of a pocket, drew a crackling-new bill, and handed it over. Luke pocketed it without a word.

“Any trouble loading her up?” Jessica asked. 

“Nope,” Luke said. “Coveralls are easy to come by in Harlem. Just gotta have ’em back by Sunday.” A shift as he tipped his head. “Pottymouth here took care of the rest.” 

“If you ever want nicer suits,” Danny said sullenly to Matt, “I know a good tailor.” 

It took Matt a moment to clock what was happening. Then he turned his head toward Danny and gave him the warm smile he’d once reserved for Karen being brilliant. 

“I’d like that,” he said. “Thanks.” 

Danny perked up with his entire body. Skin and muscles creaked as he beamed and drew himself upright. 

“It’s an honor, Mister Murdock,” he said. “You—you gave me purpose when I needed it most. I’ve tried to live up to it.” 

“I’ve heard.” Matt let his smile widen. “Thank you for taking care of my city.” He held out his hand.

Danny grasped it like a rope in a cold ocean.

Jessica audibly shifted her weight as they shook hands. When Matt let go, she stuck out a hand to Luke and wiggled her fingers. 

Luke snorted and tossed her a set of keys. They sang as they arced through the air. 

Jessica caught them with a _chink_. “C’mon,” she growled to Matt. “Ninja-kickers ride shotgun.”

“Seems fair,” Matt said.

They got into the car, started the engine, and pulled out. They’d barely hit a highway when Jessica began jabbing random buttons on the radio. Bursts of hip-hop, mariachi and snarling talk hosts made Matt wince. 

“Can you not?” he asked. 

“Are you kidding? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” 

“To do what? Give me a migraine?”

“It’s an Impala, Murdock. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.” 

“What?” 

“What?” 

Matt groaned and slouched low in his seat. 

The radio shut off with a click.

They rode in silence before Matt asked, very quietly, “How’d you find me?” 

“Whiskey,” Jessica replied. 

Matt frowned, tried to work out a way that answer made sense. 

Jessica sighed. “Your name’s Murdock,” she said. “And you’re more Catholic than the Pope. Hell’s Kitchen Irish kid, probably gonna have an Irish wake. With?”

“Whiskey,” Matt said slowly. 

“I figured one of the assholes who got you killed oughta show up and pour one out. Or down. Whatever.” 

“You didn’t get me—”

“Shut up.” Her finger stabbed the air like a knife. “Anyway, I followed your friends. Who, by the way, have not bought nearly enough booze for a wake. You need better friends.” 

“Are you actually upset that my friends aren’t alcoholics?” Matt demanded.

“Uh, yeah.” Jessica somehow managed to audibly roll her eyes. “Being friends with you clearly requires it.” 

Matt slumped low in his seat. He supposed she had a point there.

“Anyway,” Jessica repeated. “I followed them to that little church you like to suffer in—shut up, of _course_ I know—and I lost two hours of my life to staring at the backs of their sad heads. I watch middle-aged men screw strippers for a living, Murdock. And this? This was boring. And faintly guilt-inducing. Is Catholicism contagious? Do you know?”

“I didn’t contact Foggy or Karen,” Matt said sullenly. “So how.” 

“The priest. Father Lantom. He came and talked to your friends. I figured he’d know when the wake was, so I followed _him_ around for a while. Guy kept going back to Midtown Circle for two days. And then he stopped. Morning of the third day, I showed up to follow him and he didn’t leave the church.” 

Matt tipped his head back against the headrest. “I didn’t know he was there.” He closed his eyes. “I remember a voice. A man speaking Latin. I thought I dreamed it. _Per sacrosancta humanae reparationis mysteria, remittat tibi omnipotens Deus omnes praesentis et future vitae poenis …_ ” 

“If it’s not in _The Exorcist_ , I don’t speak any Latin,” Jessica interrupted. 

Matt gave her a faint smile. “It’s the Apostolic Pardon. Priests say it over the dead, to grant them forgiveness. It’s supposed to open the gates of paradise.” 

“Supposed to?”

“Let’s just say the Father and I have a difference of opinion.” Matt shook his head. “Go on.” 

“Right,” Jessica muttered. “So. Your priest stopped going to the site and started making a lot of phone calls. I figured something had happened that second night, so I had a friend of mine pull his phone records.”

“That’s illegal,” Matt said mildly.

“Tell that to a pissy one-armed cop,” Jessica replied. “Especially when she’s got a ninja death cultist to run her errands for her.” She sighed. “So that’s how we found you. Gave you some time to get your head out of your ass, but,” she shrugged, “nothing lasts forever.”

“Why not?” Matt asked. “There’s nothing for me to do. I have nothing to bring to the table anymore.” 

There was a long silence. Matt listened to the _smick_ of Jessica blinking and the rustle of her hair as she looked at him, then the road, then him again.

Finally, she said, “I needed a lawyer who could kick ass. Lucky you.” 

Her heartbeat jumped as she said it.

Matt snorted at the lie. “Right,” he said. “Lucky me.” 

They drove in awkward quiet for an hour or so. Matt dozed fitfully, jerking awake when Jessica swerved or muttered epithets at another driver. In between, he dreamed of darkness and the smell of ancient bones and the comforting sound of absolution.

Finally, the Impala pulled off at a service station and Jessica popped the trunk. Matt took his garment bag into the men’s room and dressed in what smelled like books and mothballs but felt like the skin of a dead man. Danny had a good eye; he’d chosen Matt’s best suit for whatever Jessica had planned. 

Privately, Matt had always expected to be buried in that suit. 

He stepped out of the stinking restroom, garment bag in hand, and located Jessica by the scent of her shampoo and the _skritch_ of a polyester coverall. Luke’s contribution, no doubt. She was shrugging into something woolen—

“Is that a blazer?” Matt asked. 

“You expect me to chauffeur without one?” she retorted. “Get in the back.”

He did. 

“Briefcase is under the driver’s seat,” Jessica announced. “Don’t explain yourself, just show the receptionist the label on the envelope and keep reminding everyone you’re an officer of the court.” 

“What am I supposed to be doing?”

“Legal bullshit. Your department, not mine.”

Matt made a face at her back.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up alongside a small guard shack and Jessica opened her window. The calm, lightly Irish-accented female voice surprised Matt even as it dropped the floor out of his stomach.

“Welcome to Avengers Headquarters. State your names and business.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. You know what's hard? Figuring out what Tony Stark would name his Avengers compound. Like, he wouldn't put "compound" in the name. Avengers Bunker? Avengerland? Avengerama? I finally settled for "Steve named it when he was feeling semi-sensible." Avengers HQ. 
> 
> 2\. There won't be a LOT of Luke and Danny in here, but I had to throw them in at least once. 
> 
> 3\. Jessica Jones watches Supernatural. You're welcome, Internet. SARCASTIC GIFS FOR EVERYTHING. Also, the next chapter is Jessica's POV! And she meets Tony Stark! SO MUCH SASS AND ALCOHOL.
> 
> 4\. How did Matt get to the convent? I finally decided on this headcanon: It took a couple of days for Elektra to get herself and Matt out of the rubble, probably via the sewers. From there, OF COURSE she took him to Father Lantom, as one of the few people she knew cared about Matt and could be trusted to keep his secrets. Lantom got Matt to the convent hospital, and then called regularly to check up on him. 
> 
> 5\. As for whether I'm being sacrilegious with the whole raised-on-the-third-day thing, I would just like to point out that it's entirely in keeping with the "Born Again" storyline from the comics that appears to be starting up in the Netflix series. SO THERE. I AM ON THEME. I might be offending any Catholics in my audience, but, um ... if you're offended by the repurposing of Catholic imagery, and yet you're STILL reading Daredevil fanfiction, I really don't know what to tell you. (Unless you're my stalker, in which case I know exactly what to tell you and it's that you can fuck right off.)
> 
> 6\. Come be my friend on social media! I'm onethingconstant on Instagram and Tumblr and OnBearFeet on Twitter. I'm also opening a temporary Etsy store soon to raise holiday money if anybody really needs a TARDIS cat or something. 
> 
> 7\. If you would like to help beta my YA novel about Norse mythology, demisexuality, and sarcastic shits beating giant monsters with tree branches, hit me up at onethingconstant at protonmail dot com.

**Author's Note:**

> *rolls back up to the fandom like what up I never use the slash*
> 
> So this happened. Probably gonna update with short chapters semi-regularly. Comments give me life. 
> 
> Also, if you would like to help beta my YA novel about Norse mythology, demisexuality, and sarcastic shits beating giant monsters with tree branches, hit me up at onethingconstant at protonmail dot com.


End file.
